Eduholic

The title of this post might be the shortest lesson plan ever written by a traditional teacher (“Test Friday,” he could add if he felt talkative). New and improved teachers, at least those familiar with the writing process, may recognize these directions as steps one and two of how to share your paper in a workshop setting. The idea is that after reading the piece out loud, an author has to step out of the way and listen to his group’s response in order to understand what is actually coming across to the reader. This is sometimes very different than what the author himself intended to convey.

Today’s sermon is not about writing workshop per se, however. It’s about how I introduced writing workshop to my students using a powerful but simple pedagogical method that can be employed by virtually any teacher of any subject.

Writing to learn a la Donald Murray is one of the most powerful ways I know to individualize instruction, and can be done in almost any subject or grade level. One example of WTL is asking a question, and then letting each student respond for a few minutes in writing before discussing with the class. This works because every learner is engaged, rather than simply the kid who raises his hand all the time to blurt out answers. Note that this writing is not collected or graded for correctness; the point is to use short bursts of it to facilitate thinking and promote meaningful class discussion.

Here’s an example of how I used writing to learn today in my ninth grade English class as I was introducing the procedures for writer’s workshop. Again, I think you could do this if you were studying the causes of the Russian Revolution, the process of mitosis, or how to do long division.

“Will everyone please open their writer’s notebook to a clean page? Put today’s date in the upper right hand corner. The title of this entry is “Writer’s Workshop.” I’m a little anal about formatting entries, but only because I’ve found it useful to be organized enough to find things later. It’s like a definition for jazz (not sure where I stole this from): complete freedom within rigid structure.

“Each of us either has some experience with writer’s workshop… or not. If you’ve done it before, write about how it works, what the rules are, or a time you did it. If you haven’t done it before, write what you think it is, what you want to know about it, or other questions.” Experts, in-betweeners, and non-experts all have something to say.

Unlike a full on free write, which can go for twenty minutes once kids get their writing legs, this one was five minutes long. I wrote, too. In fact, since I taught English 9 three times today, I had three five-minute long writing sessions in which to reflect, refine, and critique the lesson itself. Writing with students models the behavior, sending the message that this is important shared work. Leveraging the writing time to plan and polish makes me a more effective and engaged teacher. I would be hard pressed to find the time or energy to do that outside of class.

After we wrote, we talked as a class. As we went, I made a chart on the board with do’s and don’ts for authors (the ones reading their paper) and readers (the other members of the group). While kids said different things in each period, in general the most important ideas made it up on the board. You can read on at the end of this post to see the list we made in third period (which happens to still be up on the white board as I write).

After we made our list together, the class did another quick write: “Based on our discussion and what you see on this chart, add to the entry you started earlier. You can copy the chart or just write about the part you felt was most important.” Once again, silence descended as kids pushed their thinking a little further.

Upon completion of this exercise, the workshop launched itself. As I walked around, dropping in and out of conversations, I could hear students attempting to offer feed back using I-statements and correcting one another based on our agreed upon do’s and don’ts. Checking in at each table, I recorded a revision goal for each author.

At the end of the workshop, I asked students to write down four more “things to look for as you revise” at the end of their journal entry, which were actually “oh yeah” thoughts that came to me as I walked around the room or through my own quick writes. In a way, I was revising the lesson even as I taught it. I’ve included these four questions after the student-generated lists of do’s and don’ts.

Author Do’s
Read your piece out loud and proud…
Then shut up—excuse me-- listen hard (to the group’s responses).
Give the reader what they need.
Take notes during and after to help with revision.

Author Don’ts
Don’t explain what your paper was supposed to say. It should speak for itself.
Don’t stop reading in the middle, even if you catch a mistake.
Don’t feel like you need to take every suggestion. It’s your paper, after all.

Reader Do’s
Be kind. Writing honestly means taking a risk.
Be constructive. You can help them improve without hurting their feelings.
Be specific and respond as a reader: I liked the line where… I want to know more about… I was confused when…

Reader Don’ts
Don’t interrupt the author, or be disrespectful.
Don’t “red pen” first or only. Help with grammar but first address ideas and flow.
Don’t say “you should…” Say how you felt as a reader, and leave it to the author to figure out what he should do to reach you.
Don’t “fix” it. That’s the author’s job.
Don’t give (too many) verbal doggie biscuits. “That was really good” doesn’t make me a better writer.

Four more questions for revision
Where is the tension? Stories usually build up to a problem or conflict, forcing the reader to read on.
Where can you slow down and expand? Good writers don’t always go at the same speed. At a key moment, they tend to slow down and provide greater detail, often with sensory imagery.
Have you written for the lay reader? Using too many technical terms about a subject like football or a video game can lose some readers. Write for an audience ranging from kids at your table to me or other adults in the building.
Does this personal story shed light on a larger issue? Connecting your narrative to human nature or society in some way can make a paper more interesting. And isn’t that what this is really all about?

Posted by Emmet Rosenfeld at 4:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

Writer’s workshop is fundamental in my teaching. A writing teacher and colleague of mine, Vic Kryston, explains perfectly why it works so well: “Vic Kryston is the most interesting person in the room.”

Nancy Atwell, author of the seminal 80s how-to In the Middle and now a brand unto herself in education circles, can fairly be called the mother of writer’s workshop, at least in terms of using it with kids in the classroom. From her I’ve borrowed a term now in wide currency in writing instruction, “writing territories,” asking my students this year to write about and then “map” five such territories. In the spirit of fair play, here are five things I know a lot about and can explore further in my own writing.

1. Two years ago on his 73th birthday, my dad almost drowned in a pond. Oddly enough, nearly a century before, his father also almost drowned. The man who would become my grandfather was nine when he fell into a quarry. I have a tattered family scrapbook recovered from my dad’s office: the first item in it is a yellowing news clip describing Jay’s near drowning. That scrapbook, and those eerily parallel near misses, are dark waters into which I feel compelled to dive.

2. Bikes. Jack’s grandparents just got him a new one for his 7th birthday, which he now rides with some confidence up and down the street. 3-year old Will is still on training wheels but jealous. As a boy, I grew up riding bikes all around my neighborhood. We rode from our house to the pool, on dirt trails we made in the woods across the street, over ramps built with bricks and scraps of plywood. I remember most of my bikes in the order that I owned them, and think I could write an autobiography based on that progression.

3. My time there started with the death of dogs. There, I wrote it. The first sentence of my Great American Novel, or at least, of a memoir I could pen about the time I spent, when I was 21, living with Eskimos in rural Alaska. First I went for a couple summers as a camp counselor and swimming instructor, and eventually I stayed in one village to run dogs and check out village life. I never thought I’d play in the village rock band or start a forest fire along the way. Or change my name or have my heart broken, for that matter.

4. Running … past the local elementary school at the heart of our neighborhood which sits on the site of what they say was once a race track way back when; down Four Mile Run, on the banks of which, according to the fading historical marker planted next to the Jeff Davis overpass, a bustling carnival midway used to sit last century; along the Potomac River on an asphalt path that covers the route of the canal that once ran between Old Town and Georgetown in the mid 1800s, a single lock from which still exists as a scenic waterfront feature near a high end office complex north of Old Town… Running through history as I make my weekend four mile loop. Could that bluff overlooking the power plant be the site of a forgotten Native American burial ground?

5. I took a gap year before they had a name, after high school spending a ski season in Colorado as a lift operator (and night watchman, and ultimately a wine-and-cheese guy). Skiing the glades of the 14,000-foot Loveland Pass by moonlight and boycotting the French chefs in the Club Med kitchen with the use of a small portable typewriter are two memories that come floating back. Out of Bounds might be a good name for a memoir on this phase of my life.

Posted by Emmet Rosenfeld at 10:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I want to write a book that for now I’ll call, “Where Kids Work Hard.” The idea is to promote student-centered as opposed to teacher-centered teaching. But, I’m feeling a little intimidated by the whole idea and don’t quite know where to start. Dashing off a blog post in a sitting is one thing. But a sustained masterwork of utter brilliance…

Just as Certifiable helped me eat the elephant of the National Board portfolio one bite at a time, I hope Eduholic can help me build this book. To that end, here’s an example of kids working hard(er than teachers) from the first week of school. The scene is that kids had to read a book from a summer reading list, which I wanted to bring into class right away. Another goal was to fold in some getting to know you.

The old/hard/teacher-centered way? A deadly dull barrage of book reports. Kids stand up in front of class, one by one, and drone. The “A” students bring in good show and tell items or maybe a fancy poster to spice things up. Teacher sits at a big teacher desk and takes notes (so as to appear interested). Not wanting to waste all those notes, and to show the kids who’s boss, teacher surprises students with a pop quiz about the books the next day, or maybe three days later depending how long twenty five reports take to get through. Teacher grades quizzes in the lounge with a red pen, fueled by the smug awareness that next time those kids will pay attention when he tells them to.

The student-centered solution? Brown bag booktalks.

Each kid brings in a brown paper bag with five items: four that relate to the book and one personal item, and also write blurbs for each item including quotes from the book. On presentation day, students become interested despite themselves when the bags are tossed into the middle of the room.

Each one picks a bag. “Guess which one is the personal object” is a great ice breaker. Excited chatter takes over the room for fifteen minutes. Peer introductions to the class follow, then a quick partner eval (Did they have five items? Did they write good blurbs? Did they use quotes and otherwise show knowledge of the book?). Teacher evaluation is basically done as he takes roll during the introductions. During a planning period, “grading” is completed as he writes a quick welcoming comment on each kid’s paper after reading their personal blurbs.

The first lesson has the all the hallmarks of teacher-centered teaching: one person talks at a time from the front of the room, kids sit still at desks in straight rows, and they spend most of their time listening. A few grade-grubbers shine and the rest get by. It’s kind of boring, eventually requiring regurgitation of previously recited facts. At the end of the day, the teacher can say that he has “covered” the material.

The second lesson shows the attributes of a student-centered approach. Kids are engaged in a variety of multimodal activities that are often interactive, sometimes loud, and generally fun. The desks change configurations to suit the tasks, there is a sense of inquiry and discovery, and the teacher is a coach, participant or bystander rather than the ultimate arbiter of learning.

Brown-bagging it, in this case, means less down time and a higher degree of ownership for kids, not to mention more genuine learning. Each kid constructed meaningful connections to the books by selecting and writing about his or her items. Welcome byproducts for teachers include less prep work and grading, and a higher degree of enjoyable interaction with students.

Cost of a pack of brown paper bags? $1.35. Time saved for more meaningful work by not having old-fashioned book reports or grading a quiz? Three hours. The feeling you get when a student-centered lesson really flies? Try it and see!

Posted by Emmet Rosenfeld at 3:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

My three-year old son has watched Old Yeller hundreds of times and thinks he’s Travis (“Tavis,” he says), a wild west boy who knows how to track hogs and says “Get ‘im boy,” to his dog. (Our puppy, Bee, is enthusiastic but doesn’t have the instinct to run a fox to ground.)

As part of Will River’s developmental acquisition of language, in addition to the frontierisms, he has somehow picked up a useful if inappropriate expletive, “Oh, sh*t!” I’m chagrined that he uses it, but at least he does so at the right times, like when he drops a cup of juice all over the floor.

I felt like Will when I read Juan Enriquez’s As the Future Catches You, the school-wide book assigned over the summer at our science and tech high school. A dyed in the wool humanities guy like me feels like he’s in the wrong era and has just splattered Cran-Tangerine all over the hardwood when it finally hits him that most of what he knows a lot about is insignificant or obsolete.

The image on the cover is an almost burnt match. Just the tip glows orange. The subtext seems to be that the future has already flared brightly and burnt your finger tips. Something else one notices right away is that the book isn’t written in prose, per se. Each page is a series of linked ideas in different fonts with occasional graphics and charts. In other words, it’s written in powerpoint.

Disconcerting, but one finds it’s very easy to pick up and put down at odd moments. I read a few chapters while loading stuff on to blackboard, for example, when the server was a little slow. I don’t damn the book as reductive. It’s actually economical. One doesn’t have to follow a thread too long to be get that burnt fingertip feeling.

The main idea is that the recent near-complete mapping of the human genome is a historic turning point in society, and the world will never be the same again. Technology, geopolitics, and culture are all being driven by this breakthrough, according to Enriquez, creating an ever more rapidly expanding schism between techno haves and have-nots. Woe to the salt of the earth in this kinetic knowledge-driven global economy.

In addition to lionizing modern pioneers like Craig Venter, the biologist and business mogul who accelerated gene-mapping by trying to turn a profit on it with his own private company, Enriquez casually blows your mind with factoids from fields you didn’t quite know existed. Biocomputing, for example, harnesses massive computer power to map genes. Celera, Venter’s company, had the biggest computer in the world working around the clock crunching 1’s and 0’s, amassing “teraflops” of data (which are apparently less than petabytes, exabytes, and zettabytes.) “According to a U.C. Berkeley study,” writes Enriquez in fairly fine print, “… all words spoken by all human beings throughout history could be stored with around 5 exabytes.” Though I wonder if he accounted for my wife’s phone calls with her mother and sisters, this is still the sort of stat that makes a guy who teaches old books for a living feel small.

Without getting wishy washy about all the billions of people on the wrong end of it, Enriquez gushes over the idea that mind workers in modern countries today produce 427 times more (what?) than poor people in developing nations. He makes the same case with another counting bean, the number of citizens of a country it takes to produce a patent: in 2003 there were 3,308 U.S. citizens per patent but over 23 million Indonesians per patent. To be honest, I wanted to start taking notes at this point on companies to invest in, although the author later points out that change is so rapid that these same wildly innovative companies could go bust tomorrow as they get gobbled up by even more aggressive, cutting-edge corporations. (Stuck again: an English teacher who not only doesn’t understand what they’re doing but can’t ride the bubble with my mutual fund.)

It’s not just companies that are cannibalizing one another. Enriquez makes a convincing case along the way that geopolitical lines are being erased as if the map were drawn on sand before a rising tide. He borrows Churchill’s phrase, “empires of the mind,” to describe what countries need to build if they want to succeed, creating havens for mind workers rather than exploiting limited natural resources or cruder forms of human capital (unskilled labor). Another eyebrow-arching stat: three quarters of the members in the U.N. today did not exist 50 years ago.

By the end, Enriquez gets into some far out but just around the bend stuff, like the idea that soon we’ll be able to clone our kids or, even sooner, have individualized medical treatment based on our personal genetic code. Ethical dilemmas we can’t yet imagine will arise, making my current concerns (will Will get kicked out of preschool for cursing?) inconsequential. Come to think of it, maybe all of this technological transformation will allow us to travel back in time to the frontier days so Will really can hang out with Travis. Or maybe I can escape my 86’d job by growing old time cowboys in Petri dishes from microscopic bits of dandruff trapped in their hats. The possibilities in this new economy are endless--Oh sh*t, kids are coming back from lunch. Time to train the next generation of genomists how to read and write, skills which might still come in handy for at least a few more years.

Posted by Emmet Rosenfeld at 4:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)